The Memoirs of Marguerite Krux
by amphetamine47
Summary: Marguerite's memoirs, as told to Abby Malone (AUFuture story)
1. Default Chapter

TITLE: The Memoirs of Marguerite Krux  
  
AUTHOR: Abby Malone*  
  
RATING: PG maybe? Nothing worse than the show in here…  
  
SPOILERS: None…possible AU/Future  
  
DISCLAIMER: Alas, they aren't mine. Well, except for Johnny, Art, and Abby Malone. And Lord William Roxton (II).  
  
AUTHORS NOTE: To my grandparents  
  
* Obviously Abby Malone's not my real name ;)  
  
When I first undertook the duty of putting my Aunt's biography to paper I felt it would be a grand adventure. Aunt Madge had always seemed larger than life to me, full of wit and humor that kept her going even through the Blitz. I knew little of her exploits growing up; my repeated questions were answered obliquely with replies of "Aunt Madge likes her privacy" and "Don't ask insensitive questions, dear."  
  
The youngest child and only girl, however, I was desperate to emerge from my older brothers' shadows , and Aunt Madge provided the perfect avenue. After all, she herself defied conventions. She was an unmarried London Society matron who lived through World Wars and had managed to make the best of a plateau full of dinosaurs. One of my earliest memories was of a copy of my father's book lying open in the library with Aunt Madge's "Those pesky facts, Malone" scrawled across the title page.  
  
Years of visits with the enigmatic lady (who I never saw as a secondary mother figure despite the fact that she was older than my own mother) provided little insight into her character until the summer of my twelfth birthday. I was precocious and anxious to prove myself grown up, often by using words I had little or no understanding of. And the thing I wanted most in the world (this was before the War, of course) was to be allowed inside the sanctum that was Aunt Madge's grand two-story library.  
  
So I pestered and whined and generally made such a nuisance of myself that finally she caved (though curiously she managed to do so as if she'd planned it the entire time) and escorted me inside. It is there that this story begins.  
  
My eldest brother, Johnny, had spent the entire summer readying himself for the trip to College, while Art spent the entire summer playing baseball with a group of boys from his school. The vacation had been a last minute affair, arranged almost entirely by Aunt Madge, who'd footed the bill for my steamer ticket and even for a lady to watch me on the ship when Mama and Daddy weren't able to make the trip. The vacation was almost over and I'd not yet seen the thing I wanted to see most of all while I was in London--Aunt Madge's library. I asked her every day, and every day her answer was the same, "When you're older and can appreciate it."  
  
Finally, on the last day of the vacation I asked one last time to see her library. She looked at me with those sharp grey eyes of hers and nodded once, "Decidedly older," was her only answer before ushering me inside.  
  
It took my breath away. The fabled wealth of the Tsars of Russia did not and could not even compare to this single room. There was gold leaf and marble, ancient oak and maple intricately carved into banisters and railings The opposite wall was the only one devoid of books, and instead it was a great marble-and-brass fireplace. Around the fire two large armchairs sat across from each other on an antique rug. And above the fireplace was the painting that wrote this book. I looked up at the massive painting and blurted,  
  
"That's Uncle John!"  
  
I didn't miss the sudden, brutal change of her expression at the mention of Uncle John's name, and it surprised me. My Uncle John (not really my Uncle, not any more than Aunt Madge is my real Aunt) died before I was born, but my parents had told us children stories about his exploits on the Plateau since before I can remember. Strange, but before that moment I'd never even considered that Aunt Madge would've known Uncle John. I apologized, like Mother'd taught me, for my unintentional blunder, and Aunt Madge smiled at me--a strange smile nothing like her normal one.  
  
"It is Uncle John. You didn't think I knew your Uncle John, did you?"  
  
"I guess it makes sense," I allowed, "Since you and mom and dad and Uncle George and Uncle John and Uncle Arthur were all on the Plateau together. I guess I just never thought about it before."  
  
"Well there you have it," Aunt Madge said, "My big secret. Now come along, Abby, you'll miss your boat."  
  
The long ride back to the States was made bearable only by thinking up questions to ask about Aunt Madge and Uncle John; questions I knew my Mother would refuse to answer and that my Father would look to my mother and similarly not answer, but that I wanted asked anyway. It was simply to amazing to imagine that wild Aunt Madge had known heroic Uncle John and now had a great large portrait of him above the fire in her library.  
  
But that was also the year War came, and my questions were not only met with silence but completely ignored while Johnny withdrew from school to join the Army and Art talked endlessly about shipping out with the Navy and even Father mentioned once or twice that he wouldn't mind 'being where the action was' despite the fact that Mother wouldn't have it.  
  
That turned in to a very long year, and then a long few years, and afterwards I wasn't a kid anymore but a young woman desperate to see the world that had almost been annihilated. That summer the indomitable Aunt Madge wired us all tickets to come visit her in London (Mother said she was insane, for London had been nearly obliterated by German bombs). And it was on the ship to England that my suddenly much older brother Johnny, the new Johnny with a scar that ran down one arm and a knee that didn't work quite perfectly anymore, told me a remarkable story about Aunt Madge during the War.  
  
Johnny had been injured in France, and found himself lucky enough to be shipped to a nearby military hospital. After being there two days, after exhaustive surgery on his knee and hours of feverish sleep, he opened his eyes to find Aunt Madge sitting next to him dressed as if she were heading for a tea party. At first he thought he must have been imagining her, but when he tried to close his eyes again she'd smacked his arm and said tartly,  
  
"Don't you dare, John Malone. I saw those eyes. You're awake and you'd best be well enough to travel. I have a ticket for you on the railway."  
  
"Railway? Aunt Madge, the Germans-"  
  
"The Germans wouldn't dare cross me," Aunt Madge retorted, "not after how solidly I trounced them the last time. Besides which, the line is being held and the railway is still running. And that means that you are coming back to England with me."  
  
"England? What about the bombing?"  
  
"They're only bombing London, in case you hadn't heard, and since that's the case we shan't go there. Now are you quite finished asking questions?"  
  
Johnny finally nodded that he was and allowed Aunt Madge and a nurse to dress him and get him to the train. But upon arriving at the train they were informed that a German offensive now threatened the rail-line to the Channel and England beyond.   
  
Aunt Madge ignored the officer, loaded Johnny on the train, and then removed a pistol from her handbag. She spoke to the conductor in a soft voice, and all Johnny heard of the rather remarkable conversation were the words 'England' 'Nazis' and 'Parcifal'. The train got underway, and when the unmistakable sounds of German pursuit drew near Aunt Madge leaned out a window to fire repeatedly at the Germans while calmly ordering a porter to break open a case of rifles for use in defense of the train.  
  
Needless to say the Germans were repelled, Johnny and Aunt Madge made it to England, and there took up residence at the country home of the Roxton family--the family of my 'Uncle' John.  
  
To me, starved for new adventure after the dry years of war, this made perfect sense. Obviously Aunt Madge and Uncle John had married on the Plateau, and when he'd died she'd never recovered! Obviously Aunt Madge was the tragic heroine of this story just like something out of Jane Austen! When I presented this hypothesis to my parents, however, they shared dismayed looks and begged me not to speak to Aunt Madge of it. Again, I was sure I understood. The death of her husband was a terrible memory--hadn't I seen the pain on her face?--and I certainly didn't want to hurt Aunt Madge anymore. I promised not to bring it up, and I kept my promise.  
  
It was Aunt Madge that broke it.  
  
"You are a reader of the novels of Jane Austen, Abby, are you not?" Aunt Madge asked abruptly over tea one day.  
  
"Yes. I enjoy them very much."  
  
"And you fancy me some sort of romantic heroine, don't you?"  
  
I opened my mouth to deny it, but she raised an eyebrow,  
  
"Do not lie to me, dear. I know what hero worship looks like and despise it."  
  
"I'm sorry," I managed, and she took a sip of tea,  
  
"Tell me, Abby, how do you think the Austen novel of your Uncle John and I played out?"  
  
"Um…you met on the Plateau. You must've fallen in love and been married and Uncle John was killed and-"  
  
"I never got over it? I mean this only constructively, Abby, but that's the most vapid, repeated tale I've ever heard."  
  
Speechless, I just nodded. And then she surprised me.  
  
"Would you like to hear the real story? The real story is less dramatic than your version, I'm sorry to say, but it is the truth."  
  
"Why…?"  
  
"Lets just say that the War has convinced me, finally, of my own mortality. And I want you to hear this story. Lord knows someone should, and I can't think of any one I'd prefer."  
  
"Thank you, Aunt Madge."  
  
"We'll start after dinner. Bring a notebook."  
  
She waited for me in the library--which looked immaculate and as if there was no war at all. In here I'd believe that the world never changed, if not for the tiredness in her proud form.  
  
"Aunt Madge?"  
  
"Sit down," she said simply, sitting in one of the large chairs beside the fireplace, "Would you like some tea?"  
  
"No, thank you," I said politely, sitting down and hurriedly pulling out my notebook. Ready for anything she might say, pen poised like my father taught me.  
  
"You're certain you want to hear this?" she said, not looking up from the cup of tea she was studiously brewing herself.  
  
"Yes, Aunt Madge."  
  
She took a sip, then set the tea cup on the table at her side,  
  
"We'd finally managed to get back to London, and John--that's your 'Uncle' John--had asked me to marry him. I'd agreed, and was dreaming merrily of wedding plans when I received a telegram from an old friend asking me to meet him…"  
  
"Marguerite."  
  
"Winnie," I stared at him, suspicious, "to what do I owe the honor?"  
  
"Not quite an honor I'm afraid."  
  
He looked uncomfortable, which was a warning sign. I watched him pace softly in front of the door, cigar jammed firmly between his teeth.  
  
"This is about my impending engagement," I said, and it wasn't a guess but a statement. We both knew it. "Isn't it?"  
  
Churchill sighed,  
  
"Always were a bright girl."  
  
I stared at him, and he sighed again,  
  
"You know I can't allow it."  
  
"I don't recall asking permission," I snapped, and he looked up at me sharply. Friend or no, he was still a Lord and a man of substance. I sighed, "I'm sorry."  
  
There was a long moment of silence, and I stepped towards him,  
  
"Winnie…"  
  
"It's too public. You're already too well-known for comfort, but a wedding? Now? And to Lord Roxton?"  
  
"Fine. It doesn't need to be public. We'll elope."  
  
"Are you mad, woman? An elopement would only make it worse."  
  
"Then tell me how we do this!" I cried, annoyed at my own emotions. I could see it was making him uncomfortable.  
  
"You don't," he snapped, "It can't happen. You know it can't."  
  
I pursed my lips and blinked back tears, summoning righteous anger,  
  
"You're telling me I can't marry him then?"  
  
"Precisely."  
  
"Well where the devil were you when I actually needed this advice? You should've told me this when I met my first husband!!"  
  
He sighed tiredly and dropped in to a chair,  
  
"Stop being melodramatic, my dear. It doesn't become you."  
  
I could only glare, which he ignored.  
  
"I'm not you father, I'm your-"  
  
"Supervisor?" I finished for him, my voice acid, "I'm not on your payroll anymore, Winnie, and you damn well know that!"  
  
"I damn well do," he replied angrily, "I also know that the Crown and I have had the devil's own time covering up for you. You go through with this marriage and it will be utterly impossible."  
  
I stared at him as the words sank in,  
  
"Covering for me…who was looking?" When he didn't answer I knelt to look him in the face, "Who?!"  
  
"The Germans."  
  
"Surely that's not all."  
  
He sighed and chomped irritably on his cigar,  
  
"Some men from Paris. Another from Vienna. Dignitaries from Shanghai, thugs and emigree from Russia. You've made many enemies, Marguerite."  
  
I sighed tiredly; this was an old song.  
  
"I know."  
  
"It's hard enough to cover it up now. We had hoped that with you lost in the Amazon things might die down, but…"  
  
"Dressler," I smiled bitterly, "and Xan."  
  
"It's a new world, and one must be quick to adapt to it."  
  
I nodded tiredly but didn't say a word.  
  
"It would be just as dangerous for him," Churchill said softly, "Just being in your periphery."  
  
"Roxton can take care of himself," I said quickly, sounding very much like a stubborn child.  
  
"Yes," Churchill agreed with a nod, "I believe he can. But only, I'm sure, if he knows what he's up against."  
  
"And he can't," I finished softly, unhappily.  
  
"No," Winnie agreed, "He can't. I am sorry, my dear."  
  
I stood, feeling suddenly very old and very tired, and gave him a sharp look,  
  
"Don't be sorry," I said quickly, "I don't want to be able to forgive you."  
  
The next day I went to Roxton's town home and broke it off. Five years later he caved to family pressures and married. The next year I heard he had a son. The year after a second son followed, and two years after that he was dead of something as simple and commonplace as a heart attack.  
  
"And there you have it. The drama of your Uncle John and I. Not quite as you'd hoped is it?"  
  
"You…you just…walked away?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But…" the romantic in me couldn't accept it. If she'd loved him, if he'd loved her, how could they not have lived happily ever after?  
  
"Not the ending you'd hoped for, hmm?"  
  
I did the math and frowned,  
  
"Uncle John didn't die before I was born."  
  
Aunt Madge winced and took a sip of her tea,  
  
"No, he didn't."  
  
"But then why…?"  
  
"His wife didn't like us. His 'plateau' friends, she called us. It started out just me, then moved on to include your parents and Challenger. Wouldn't allow us in her house, so it was easier to say that John had died before you and your brothers were born. That way you didn't think he hated you. Or us, I suppose."  
  
Her voice caught on the last word, and I looked up in surprise,  
  
"Aunt Madge?"  
  
"I wanted him to hate me," she murmured, "It would've been easier."  
  
I frowned, and she smiled softly at my confusion,  
  
"I saw him once before he died, you know. Our last meeting, and the worst. I'd gone back to spying and I'd been hurt doing it. Somehow he found out, tracked me down, and appeared at my bedside as I woke up. I was in pretty bad shape--broken bones and the lot--but he still looked at me like I was the most beautiful woman in the world."  
  
She was near tears and I wanted desperately to stop this--I'd never seen Aunt Madge cry and this was simply too much--but she wouldn't stop.  
  
"We talked, too briefly, and he left. And six months later he was gone. And his mother, God bless her, sent me this."  
  
From her pocket she removed a pocket watch, and passed it to me.  
  
"It was his. And his brother's. He'd carried it to war and said it had always brought him luck. And rather than pass it along to his sons," she cleared her throat, "he wanted me to have it."  
  
"Aunt Madge-"  
  
"I went through a bad time after his death. Took assignments that were far too risky, played hero whether I was qualified to or not…nearly got myself killed, so Winnie finally took me off the line and put me in charge of the spy corps. That, incidentally, is why you didn't hear much from me during the War. That and the fact that the blasted Germans were blowing mail steamers out of the water and shooting down mail planes. Idiots."  
  
I blinked at her sudden sidetrack and realized, quite quickly, that she'd done it intentionally. Everything, I realized, was intentional with Aunt Madge.  
  
Which was made unmercifully clear the next day at lunch, when we ran in to none other than young Lord William Roxton.  
  
"Well Willie, I must say you're looking fit."  
  
"Thank you, ma'am," he smiled shyly.  
  
"Willie, this is my niece, Abby Malone."  
  
"Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Malone's daughter, of course. Lovely to meet you."  
  
I nodded a little absently, enamored of his accent, his trim figure in fashionable clothes.  
  
"William here was all set to go in to the Army, and then we had to go and win the War," Aunt Madge teased, and he blushed. "What is it about men that makes them all such noble fools, willing to go to war at the drop of a hat?"  
  
"Now Miss Krux, you know-" he began, only to be cut off by Aunt Madge's voice.  
  
"I've told you before, young man, not to call me Miss Krux. It makes me feel like an old woman, and I'm not quite there yet. You may call me Marguerite or Aunt Madge, but only one of those."  
  
"Yes ma'am-"  
  
"No yes ma'am, either. I'm not a schoolmarm or the Queen, thank you."  
  
"Sorry Aunt Madge."  
  
She shook her head at him and smiled at me,  
  
"I'm going to the bakery. Shall I bring you anything back?"  
  
"An éclair ?" I smiled hopefully, and she nodded.  
  
"Of course. Willie? Anything for you?"  
  
"My mother.."  
  
"I didn't inquire of your mother, William, I asked whether you should like anything from the bakery."  
  
Another blush,  
  
"An éclair would be lovely. Thank you."  
  
She nodded once and then started down the street. William Roxton shakes his head,  
  
"Remarkable woman."  
  
I can't help but agree. 


	2. Berlin, 1915

TITLE: Memoirs of Marguerite Krux Ch. 2  
AUTHOR: Abby Malone  
RATING: PG for implied sex  
SPOILERS: Discusses Marguerite's relationship with Dieter, as spoken of in Season One's "Tribute"  
NOTES:I actually did some research for this chapter...hope it adds something! Big "thank you"s to TheChosenOne3, A. Windsor, fab, and zeusfluff---this is for ya'll :) And to answer questions, yes I hope to continue it. Scenes will depend a lot on my muse and the eps. I've got on tape. And, of course, to requests. :)  
  


Of all of the stories my Aunt Madge shared with me over the years, my favorites were invariably her tales of WWI. My brother's story about Aunt Madge during the war made a lot of sense after hearing her tales of spying during "The Great War".

As soon as I heard the word 'spy', I immediately jumped to conclusions. You'd have thought that my mistakes regarding the romance of Aunt Madge and Uncle John would've taught be better, but no. The word spy brought visions of daring adventures and cunning escapes, and I loved it. I could just see Aunt Madge, young and beautiful, escaping and outsmarting the Germans. 

We met in her library in the evening over tea, Aunt Madge sitting by the fire as I entered.  
"You've been imagining since I told you I was a spy, haven't you?"  
I managed a sheepish grin as I sat down, "Yes."   
"You're not likely to care for this story nearly as much then," she said tartly, taking a sip of tea, "There's little heroism in spying, my dear, despite the romanticism that surrounds it."  
"But it's so noble!" I blurted before I could stop myself. She looked up sharply and snorted,  
"Noble? There is nothing noble about skulking around in the mud or seducing old officers."   
I looked up at her in amazement, for of all the things I could imagine Aunt Madge doing, 'skulking around in the mud' would not be one of them. Hadn't my parents told me how she hated to go without her baths? Her coffee?   
"Tell me then," I said with a small smile, "tell me what it was like." She shook her head with a chuckle,   
"Just like your father."   
And then she told me. 

"It was the summer of 1916, and I was in Berlin...on business. My name was Marla Krause for this assignment, and I used my considerable charms to get myself invited to a banquet by none other than ..."  
"Heißen Sie willkommen, Fräulein, Sie anschauen lieblich heute abend."  
I smile coquettishly at the old man,  
"Vielen Dank Herr. Und wäre es auch von mir weiterleiten zu sagen, daß Sie positiv Zerschmettern in Uniform anschauen?"  
He chuckles at that and offers his arm, looking proud as a peacock.  
"Wäre es auch von mir weiterleiten, einer solchen gütigen Frau ein Glas Lochstanze anzubieten?"  
I take his arm and gaze adoringly up at him,  
"Überhaupt nicht. Vielen Dank."*(translation at end of chapter)

He leads me toward the punch, and I take the opportunity to surreptitiously scout the room for the rest of my targets. Across the room I catch sight of the main objective. I grit my teeth against the punch glass and try not to slap the Field Marshall's hand off my hip as he continues to compliment me outrageously. Across the room, my target is talking to a blonde tart in a scandalously cut evening gown.

"Darling," I purr demurely, "I believe that gentleman called you over."  
I nudge him gently in the direction of the mark, and he smiles down at me,  
"Ah, yes, that is General Warburg**."  
He proud of himself, I can see. Proud of himself and his connections. Idiot. I flutter my eyelashes at him, and he flushes,  
"Would you like to meet him, my dear?"  
"Oh I couldn't...I needn't take up any of his time."  
"Any time you take, my dear, would be repaid by your beauty I'm sure."  
I giggle shyly and allow him to lead me over to the man, who practically shoves the blonde out of the way when he sees me. I suppress a smirk and smile winningly at him.

"Good day, Herr General," I say, lilting my voice with just a hint of promise. He kisses my hand, then slides a look at my 'date'.  
"Field Marshall," he says smoothly, "why don't you take a walk?"  
The old man looks dismayed at the prospect, but bows out gracefully, taking the blonde tart with him.

"Such beauty I have never seen, Miss...?"  
"Krause," I lean close, "Marla Krause."  
"And a beautiful name to go with it. Would you care for a drink, Miss Krause?"  
"Marla, please, Herr General."  
"Then Max, I insist."  
I blush and look at my feet in a fit of false shyness, but nod in acquiescence. He ushers me to his table--at the head of the banquet hall--and impolitely moves a young officer and his date to make room for me.  
"Oh Max," I say breathlessly, "how important you are!"  
He holds me very tightly, and his mustache tickles my cheek as he kisses me.

The night passes in a whirl, and I vaguely remember being introduced to a hotshot young pilot by the name of Dieter before being whisked away to the General's suite. It's there that I weave the real magic, and manage to milk him for information without him even realizing it. In the morning I leave before dawn with a note full of false sincerity and pride for 'giving my virtue to an officer of the Kaiser.'

"Shortly thereafter I met young Dieter again...in Belgium, actually. And all I shall say about that is that War certainly brings out the worst in people--Germans, especially." I frowned, wanting to ask what exactly she meant but somewhat fearful of her answer. Given her reticence, I decided to postpone any questioning about what exactly went on between herself and Dieter.  
"But you did make it back to England?"  
"Of course. Just in time, actually, to get another assignment. That was the one leading up to the iridium theft, and if you want more than that you'll just have to go search the Royal Archives."

I sighed at that,  
"That's it? That's all you'll say?"  
She smirked,  
"My dear, I was a SPY! One of the first things we're taught is how to tease a story."  
"Aren't you going to finish it, though?" I demanded, "What happened in Belgium? What's iridium?"  
She looked pensive a long moment, then stood with her tea cup in hand,  
"That, my young author, would be a tale for another day. Don't worry, dear, I wouldn't challenge you to write my memoirs and then not tell you the stories."  
I was silent for a long moment, and she headed for the door. She paused, half-turned, and threw a wicked smile my way,  
"But I will tell you that the iridium assignment was the first time I worked with your Uncle John."  
I looked up, surprised, but by the time I'd formulated another question she was gone.

I wondered, briefly, if my father had ever had so maddening an interview. Then I shook my head and grinned. Of course he had; he'd known Aunt Madge in her youth!

*Welcome, Miss, you're looking lovely this evening.  
Thank you, sir. And would it be too forward of me to say that you look positively dashing in uniform?  
Would it be too forward of me to offer such a gracious lady a glass of punch?  
Not at all. Thank you.  
(Big thanks to FreeTranslation.com)

**Max Warburg, head of the German Secret Service in 1916, was not a General. But since they gave him that rank on the show, I decided to stick to it.


End file.
